


The Clock

by deklava



Series: The Man Who Beat Sherlock [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Character Death Fix, F/M, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-03 18:22:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1754027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deklava/pseuds/deklava
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian Adler has worked hard to put his bloody past behind him. But when Sherlock is captured by death traffickers and given 72 hours to live, Ian's only hope of saving him is to unleash the monster again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: This is a fairly dark fic inspired by the film 'Hostel', but all references to torture will be non-graphic.

_The clock of life is wound but once_  
 _And no man has the power_  
 _To tell just when the clock will stop_  
 _At late or early hour._  
Anonymous

When the young American, who stammers that his name is Jared, admits that he’s never been with another man before but is “curious”, Ian is instantly hungry. His eyes devour Jared’s lean physique, nicely-shaped cock, and tight little arse.

Without diverting his stare, he says, “How much arse play have you done with him?”

Mira lowers her wine glass. “Four fingers.”

The young man’s cock twitches at the memory.

“Did you enjoy it, slave?” Ian asks him.

“I loved it, Sir.”

Mira rises from her maroon velvet armchair. “Hold your hands out, boy.”

The American trembles as he extends his cuffed wrists. His Mistress uses a double-ended clasp to connect them before positioning him beneath a ceiling hook dangling from a small chain. When she picks up a remote control and presses its single button, the hook lowers. The mechanical noise that accompanies its descent is both harsh and erotic.

“You must tell me who installed that for you,” Ian says.  He imagines Sherlock stretched taut by such a device, all pale and naked and shaking. “It would make a marvellous addition to my bedroom.”

The detective has been on Ian’s mind all day. They will be meeting tonight, so that Ian can give him an answer to the life-changing question he posed after their last encounter. The Man could have texted a reply immediately, but this type of discussion warranted a face-to-face encounter.

“Of course.” After snaking the hook through a hole in the clasp that holds Jared’s wrists together, Mira presses the control button again. The hook rises, pulling the young man’s arms over his head. When his body is stretched out tight, she releases the button. “Master Adler is going to inspect you now, boy. You will show him the proper respect.”

Jared sounds breathless. He’s already hardening. “Yes, Madam.”

Ian silently counts to ten before approaching his waiting plaything. As he unbuttons the sleeves of his white silk shirt, rolls them up, and reaches for a box of latex gloves, he comments, “Mira, darling, I must applaud your choice in pets. Young Jared here is exquisite.”

_Not as exquisite as Sherlock though._

“Thank you.” She sits back down and prepares to enjoy the show. “I find him rather pleasing too. Not to mention insatiable. The first time I whipped him, he begged me to double the punishment.”

“Ah. A pain slut. You have a prize indeed.” Ian snaps on the gloves, relishing the way the young man shudders at the noise. Placing his palms on the smooth buttocks in front of him, he kneads the tight muscles. “Relax, slave. You won’t survive what we have planned for you if you can’t.”

“Y-yes, Sir.”

Jared takes a deep breath, relaxing fractionally on the exhale.

“Good boy.” Ian concentrates on the task literally at hand. After applying lube, he slides one finger into the youth’s cleft and strokes the clenched opening, smiling when Jared whimpers and thrusts his hips backward.

“You like this, slave, don’t you?”

“Yes, Sir. Please… may I have more?”

“More of what?”

“Your finger in my hole, Sir. Please.”

“Since you asked so nicely, how can I refuse?”

Ian works his fingertip inside, finding Jared’s prostate and drawing slow circles around it. Using his other hand, he caresses the young man’s flat stomach before grasping his cock and stroking it. Gasping, Jared tugs on the cuffs and pushes back, trying to fuck himself.

“Patience,” Ian admonishes him, releasing his cock and giving his balls a warning squeeze.

“That is his weak point,” Mira admits. “So young and impetuous.”

“Mmm, I can see that.” Ian slowly pulls his finger out. “Maybe that whip on your desk will humble him a little.”

“It couldn’t hurt,” she smirks.

“Oh, I’ll make sure that it will.” Ian peels off the gloves, tosses them in a bin, and strolls over to the Louis XVI desk, where a black leather dog whip is coiled amidst an assortment of paddles, crops, and dildos. After picking it up and giving it a test flick that cracks the air like a small explosion, he returns to Jared and grasps the other man’s jaw, forcing eye contact.

“I’m going to give you ten strokes from this whip. You will thank me for each one and ask for another. Understood, slave?”

“Yes, Sir.” Jared swallows. Sweat trickles down his pale face, but his erection does not flag. “I’m sorry, Sir.”

Ian pauses. “Did I ask you if you were sorry?”

“N-no, Sir.”

“Fifteen strokes then.”

“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

Ian glories in the young man’s confusion, panic, and arousal. Thrusting his face forward, he applies a bruising kiss to those full lips. With his other hand he reaches around and presses the whip’s sleek handle slowly and teasingly against Jared’s still-slick hole, careful not to breach him. Yet.

“Oh God,” the American moans, rolling his hips. His cock rubs against Ian’s zip, slicking the leather surface with pre-ejaculate. After breaking the kiss, the Man smirks and removes the whip handle, ignoring the quiet whimper of protest.

“If you come before I’m done, slave, I’ll flay the skin off your pretty back. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Very good. Let’s begin then.” He circles behind Jared, snaps the whip once more, and then strikes.

The American screams and jerks in his bindings. A purple star-shaped mark appears on his left buttock. “Thank you, Sir!” he chokes. “Please, oh God, please may I have another?”

“You may,” Ian answers. He draws his arm back and lands another blow, this time on the right buttock. Jared’s knees buckle, causing his body to sway and the overhead chain to rattle noisily.

“Oh fuck….thank you, Sir! Another, please!”

Ian dispenses the rest of the punishment, concentrating on Jared’s arse. The young man screams himself nearly hoarse, but his eyes are glazed with endorphin overload and his cock is leaking freely on Mira’s expensive Moroccan rug. When she presses the button that lowers his hands, he wobbles and collapses into Ian’s arms, chanting, “Thank you, Sir. Thank you, Madam.”

“You’re welcome,” Ian whispers, pressing a sudden kiss into his hair. It’s a rich shade of brown and wavy. Like someone else’s.

******

As Ian reclines against the town car’s soft leather seat, he realises that he hasn’t been so happy in a long time. Sherlock is a handful, to be sure, but the Man has strong hands. They’ll make it work.

When the car turns onto Ian’s street, he peers through the window and sees the same pearl grey BMW parked near the intersection. It’s been there ever since Sebastian Moran became a guest of the British government (and an unhappy one at that, from what Ian has heard). He knows that the men inside don’t work for Mycroft Holmes: Sherlock’s omnipotent older brother has more elaborate methods of surveillance. No, Mycroft’s people wouldn’t sit for hours at a time in the freezing cold, sipping coffee to keep warm and pissing into the cups afterward. Minions only do that when they’re undervalued but too scared to protest.

Moriarty, then.

Ian reaches inside his cashmere blend coat to make sure that the loaded Browning is still in its inside pocket.

When Allen opens the door to him, Ian sees right away that something is wrong. Very wrong, judging from his longtime valet’s worried expression.

“Allen? What is it?”

The older man shakes his head. “Perhaps you’d better come inside, Sir.”

As Ian steps into the vestibule, his apprehension mounting, someone else appears in the entrance hall, looking even worse than Allen. In fact, Ian has only seen such an ashen pallor on a corpse.

Mycroft Holmes.

“Mr. Holmes?” Ian is instantly tense. “What is it?”

The elder Holmes swallows a few times before speaking. When he does, his tones are as controlled as ever, but anguish underscores every word.

“Mr. Adler. It appears that my brother is going to die in seventy-two hours.”


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

When Ian sees the video, he goes so still that only a darkening in his vision reminds him to breathe again. He hasn’t led a sheltered life: violence, cruelty, and bloodshed has touched him in one way or another since his parents were murdered. But the images that assault him from Mycroft’s mobile horrify him in a way he’d never thought possible.

Sherlock stands beneath a grimy overhead light, wearing only his trousers and his long limbs stretched taut by chains. His head is bowed, but there is no mistaking the blood that drips from his nose and mouth onto the stone floor. The chains position him between two of the cell’s narrow walls, holding him upright. Judging by the way his knees sag, he is barely conscious.

Ten seconds before the video ends, a large man wearing a ski mask and leather jacket steps in front of the shackled prisoner and holds up a piece of cardboard. It contains a neatly lettered message.

_The life of Sherlock Holmes has been sold. Unfortunately you were not the high bidder. But we thank you for your interest, and want you to take satisfaction in knowing that he dies in three days._

“This wasn’t sent to you,” Ian says slowly, voice steady despite the roiling feeling in his gut. “Where did you get it?”

Mycroft tightens his bloodless lips. “This evening a MI6 team under my personal direction attempted to capture a Slovakian terrorist hiding here in London. He committed suicide rather than let us- or should I say, me- take him alive. Robert Vittek was a long time adversary of Sherlock’s and mine. We found this on his mobile: it had been sent minutes before our arrival.”

“And you can’t trace it?”

“Not in time.” The elder Holmes begins to pace, ignoring the fortifying dose of expensive brandy that Allen has left on the side table. “My IT experts advise that there are multiple firewall layers and intricate encryption protocols concealing the sender. The best they can do is four days.”

Ian sinks onto the blood-red sofa.

“Sherlock does not appear to have been lured into this group’s clutches,” Mycroft continues. “I examined his incoming and outgoing texts thoroughly, and John Watson confirms that the last case he was offered was for a diamond theft that he solved before the client even left Baker Street. That was three days ago.”

“Is it possible that Sherlock was offered a decoy case that Dr. Watson wouldn’t have known about?”

Mycroft laughed bitterly. “You know my brother, Mr. Adler. Quite intimately. If he received any case offers, would he have been able to resist his unique brand of commentary? Even Mrs. Hudson has to endure it when she brings the tea. No, he appears to have been taken when he left Baker Street to go to Barts yesterday. That was the last time John saw him.”

Mycroft spins on his heel, sits down, and grips Ian’s arm with bruising force.

“I need you to tell me: did any of your clients know about Sherlock?”

Ian stares at him. “No.”

Mycroft’s grip tightens. “Are you quite positive? It is a proven fact that many are drawn to sadomasochistic activity for darker reasons than a love of pain. It may be a harmless and titillating amusement for some, but it has shadows. Shadows inhabited by killers, rapists, and violent pornographers. Contrary to what the public would like to believe, snuff films do exist.”

Ian shakes his head. “Mr. Holmes, Sherlock was never here when I had a client over. Ever. The only ones who know about our association are my regular staff.”

“I’ve already investigated them. No known affiliations to criminal or terrorist activity, although that Irish uni student you’re training was arrested once for protesting at a Greenpeace rally.”

Remembering the minions freezing outside in their BMW, Ian says, “Moriarty?”

“His present whereabouts are unknown, although we remain vigilant in case he attempts to remove Sebastian Moran from our custody.” Mycroft releases Ian’s arm and paces again. “However, this sort of offensive is not his recognised style. He fully intends to kill my brother -and me- one day, but personally. Not via an auction.”

He halts and whirls toward Ian again, like a cobra preparing to strike.

“Are there no leads you can suggest, Mr. Adler? I’m fully aware that you have not always confined your... _aggressive_ tendencies to spanking bored duchesses and turning CEOs into bruise art. I was hoping you might have resources for finding those who traffick in death like this.”

“I wish to God I could say yes right now. But I don’t. You’re talking about a time -and a person- long gone. Left behind in Israel.” But as he speaks, Ian is thinking. Fast. He just can’t tell Mycroft what he is thinking. Not if he wants Sherlock to have a hope in hell of getting out of this alive. “I’m aware of the underside of BDSM, Mr. Holmes. But those players are not among my acquaintances. It would be professional suicide, even if I didn’t find them repulsive.”

Mycroft appears to be only partly listening. “No one obliterates their past entirely. Threads always remain. You have three hours to find yours.” He checks his watch. “I shall return at one, and expect you to have some names for me.”

Even though he and Mycroft Holmes are technically on the same side and he knows that the man’s concealed anguish has to be as great as his own, Ian resents the underlying menace in those words. He stands.

“Are you threatening me?”

“Do I need to?”

“You’d find it counterproductive.”

Mycroft’s smile would have done a shark proud. “I regret to inform you that I have people who specialise in resolving any productivity issues I encounter.”

Ian steps closer. “Save your creative speeches for those who can be scared by them. I’ll do whatever is necessary to save Sherlock, but because I love him. Not because I’m afraid of you.”

At the word ‘love’, Mycroft’s stare softens, but only marginally. “We shall confer at one. Good evening.”

After the elder Holmes leaves, Ian heads for the staircase. Allen intercepts him.

“Sir?” Receiving only a stare in response, he says, “Ian, please.”

Allen only breaks character when he’s deeply. Ian exhales and says, “I’m sorry for alarming you, but I need you to listen. Carefully.”

The older man nods.

“I’m going off-radar for awhile. Please don’t ask why, but it’s Sherlock’s only chance and I have to take it. Please reschedule all my appointments for next week if the clients don’t want Jeremy or Alyssa to see them in my stead.”

Allen is obviously bursting with questions, but he holds them back. “Do you know where Sherlock is?”

“No. But I know someone who can find out.”

With that, Ian goes upstairs. Entering his bedchamber, he opens his safe and takes out the collection of fake passports he’s acquired after pleasing ambassadors from dozens of countries. Since he speaks German fluently, he selects the one that identifies him as Karl Holz of Stuttgart. Then he opens his wallet, empties it of all ID, and replaces everything with items issued to Karl Holz: a MasterCard, _Personalausweis_ (identity card), and a driver’s license. As he packs the wallet to overflowing with German currency, he thinks, _Sherlock, forgive me for what I’m about to do. If you ever find out...._

After putting his mobile and gun in the safe and locking it once more, Ian leaves his chamber via the escape tunnel he’d had built when he bought the house. Hidden behind the the floor to ceiling mirror in his walk-in closet, it can only be revealed by using a combination of buttons on his telly remote, which he is careful to return to his bedside table before departing.

The dark passage, which he navigates with a torch, terminates in a stockroom at a chemist’s two streets away. The owner-manager, who works alone, gives him a polite nod before continuing to fill prescriptions. Ian pays him well to mind his own business.

As he steps outside, Ian inhales the cool evening air, letting it brace him. Then, afire with resolve, he walks back toward his street- or to be more precise, toward the grey BMW where Moriarty’s men are watching his house and freezing.

When he raps on the window, the three men inside (one driver, two in the back seat) stare at him in disbelief. They don’t immediately respond, so Ian sighs, pulls the door open, and slides between the minions in the back.

“Unlocked doors? Really?” he says.

They’re still gobsmacked. It defies all common sense that their target has voluntarily delivered himself into their hands. The driver stares up and down the street, clearly expecting an armed squad to swoop in on them.

“No one knows I’ve come to see you, gentlemen,” Ian says. “Shall we go?” When no one answers, he snaps, “Haven’t you watched crap American telly? Take me to your leader!”

To make his point- and an impression on their boss- Ian turns to the man who’s better dressed than his cohorts, which suggests that Moriarty pays him more for some reason.

“Impressive jacket, my friend. Westwood? You must be an exemplary employee- or perhaps a better lay?”

The man flushes with anger, but before he can react, Ian seizes his right arm and snaps the bones just above the wrist.

“There goes your shooting abilities for awhile. Better start swallowing if you don’t already.”

The pained yells galvanise the other two into action. They pounce on Ian and immobilise him, but not before he blackens one man’s eye and delivers a crushing punch to the mouth of the other. Then a needle sinks into his shoulder and he’s on the floor, heading for darkness.

Well, technically he’s headed for Moriarty. But darkness claims him first.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

When Ian wakes up, he’s surprised to find that he’s curled up in a bed and not stretched to screaming point on a sophisticated torture device. He’s also naked, making him briefly wonder if he dreamed it all.

Then his shoulder throbs, an aftermath of the injection, confirming that he isn’t home in bed after all. He really had climbed into a parked car with Moriarty's minions and slapped them around before everything went dark. But he hadn’t expected to wake up to warmth and comfort like this. He’d anticipated manacles, bruises, blood: whatever Moriarty liked to inflict on his prisoners for his own amusement.

And for Sherlock, he’d have endured it.

Behind him, the mattress creaks, beheading his thought processes fast.

_Someone else is in the bed._

Keeping his eyes closed, Ian mentally surveys himself for any restraints. Finding his wrists and ankles free, he flips over, seizes a smooth but masculine throat, and springs on top of his bedmate, sending the duvet and sheets flying.

Ian stares down, breathing heavily.

James Moriarty leers back.

******

“Good morning, sunshine,” the consulting criminal beams, the pressure on his neck adding a rasp to his Irish lilt.

Ian growls under his breath. The last time he had been so close to Moriarty, he’d been on the verge of having his throat slit.

“I really should cut out your liver and feed it to you piece by piece,” Moriarty continues, eyes glittering. “You put my favourite bodyguard out of commission.”

“I’m sure you’ve replaced him already.”

“I had no choice, really, after I put him out of his misery.”

Ian releases his throat. Then he backhands the naked man beneath him so hard that blood from a split lip sprays onto the Egyptian cotton pillow.

For a split second Moriarty looks surprised, Then he laughs.

“That was a good one. How much do I owe you, _Sir_ , and do you take MasterCard?”

“Oh, it’s on the house.”

Jim snorts and licks his lip, appearing to relish the taste. “I’m loving the free samples so far, but I’m a wee bit curious. Why did you deliver yourself to me like a Christmas present? Oh, wait, let me guess. It’s a game to spice up your love life with Sherlock? He rushes in to save you before I decorate my wall with your brains?’

Ian’s had enough of playing around. “Sherlock’s missing.”

Moriarty’s playful maniac mask slips and for an instant, confusion furrows his brow.

“Well, if you think he’s here, you’re unfortunately mistaken. You came all this way for nothing except maybe evisceration. That I can definitely do for you.”

“Spare me the unimaginative threats. I’ve heard them all, and from men who make you look like Mary Fucking Poppins.”

Moriarty giggles. “So Sherlock’s done a runner on you, has he? Did it not occur to you that he may, erm, have gotten _bored_ of you? The infamous Ian Adler, keeper of the nation’s dirtiest secrets and official disciplinarian of the Royal Family, being cast aside for something more interesting? Shocking, I know, but I’m sure stranger things have happened.”

Ian crosses his arms and waits. Finally, Moriarty stops cackling like a jackal and stares up, scrutinising him with a mad brilliance.

“You know I have nothing to do with Sherlock’s little vanishing act- you obviously knew that all along- and yet here you are. If all you wanted was a go with another genius, you could have asked. I’m rather easy.”

Ian contemplates hitting him again, but refrains.

“But that’s not what you want, is it? I’m naked and willing, but you’re not. Willing, that is. So what is it, Mr. Adler? What do you need Jim to fix for you, hmmm?”

Uncrossing his arms, Ian reveals the circumstances of the phone video’s recovery and contents. Although he tries to keep the worry and fear out of his voice, he’s pretty sure that the other man sees. One of the reasons why Sherlock and Moriarty are driven to destroy each other is that their brilliance (and their egos) are too similar to peacefully coexist.

When Ian finishes Moriarty is silent, his expression thoughtful.

“Well, well, so he got Sherlock, did he? Stavros is much cleverer than I would have imagined,” he finally says. “These auctions of his are a little too dull for my tastes. You capture something young and beautiful with the intention of destroying it and then let someone else do the honours? Boring. Except for the money, of course.”

“Who’s Stavros?”

“Quiet, please. I’m trying to decide if I hate him.” Moriarty clasps his hands behind his head and contemplates the ceiling. His tone is as flippant as ever, but everything else about him- faint frown, twitching jaw muscle- suggests annoyance if not outright anger. “Let’s see- he takes my favourite toy and is going to make more money than the Bank of England by breaking it. Yes, it’s decided. I hate him.”

He doesn’t say what he plans to do about it, though. Probably nothing, Ian thinks. Given his range and history of nefarious activities, James Moriarty has more pursuers than a Nazi war criminal. He will fume that someone else- this ‘Stavros’- eliminated his most intriguing adversary first, but he would get over it.

Ian leans in until their faces are so close that they could kiss- or bite.

“I came here with a proposition for you.”

“Yes,” Moriarty says slowly, some of his cocky drawl returning. “I realise that now. You reckoned -quite accurately- that anyone who could take dear Sherlock right out from under his big brother’s nose and smuggle him to Eastern Europe like this has to be someone I’m on handshake terms with.”

Ian’s pulse quickens at the mention of Sherlock’s location.

“So, Mr. Adler, what are you offering?” The consulting criminal slides his hands out from beneath his head and runs his palms up and down Ian’s thighs. “What will you give me -what will you do for old Jim- if I get you a visitor’s pass to Hotel Stavros, so you could try breaking Sherlock out?” He licks his bloody lip again. “Because I could, you know. Quite easily.”

“I can arrange for Moran’s release. You know Mycroft Holmes would agree if it saves his brother’s life.”

Ian had been counting on this being Moriarty’s preferred ‘favour’. He can barely conceal his surprise when the dapper mastermind shakes his head.

“No. Seb is dear to my heart, but I’ll eventually get him out myself. No, for this big a risk, I want something that I _can’t_ get so easily. Two things, actually.”

The bedside clock strikes the hour. Ian refuses to look at it, knowing that he’ll only see evidence of Sherlock’s life ticking toward its final hour. “Cut to the chase. What do you want?”

Jim’s eyes gleam as his spidery fingers dig in tight. “Your phone, darling. And I don’t mean the silly little fake we took off you. The one with all the pictures and data that could bring England to its knees.”

Ian’s eyes narrow. The existence of his special cameraphone, which he privately thought of as his life insurance, wasn’t known to many: he didn’t think even Sherlock knew about it.

Ian Adler’s work was as perilous as it was lucrative. His clientele included powerful men and women whose careers could be destroyed if their dark passions became public knowledge. As the dispenser of their desires and keeper of their secrets, Ian had been targeted for assassination many times by former clients who didn’t trust his ability to stay discreet. Sniper bullets had smashed his bedroom window, one drive-by shooting had nearly killed his chauffeur, and an altercation in the men’s room of an upscale restaurant almost ended with a knife in his ribs.

Hence, the cameraphone. Ian used it to take images and videos that guaranteed his safety. Not surprisingly, there were no more attempts on his life after he hinted at its existence. For additional security, he’d had the phone customised to recognise two codes: one that would actually unlock it and another that would cause the contents to be uploaded to a virtual hard drive before it exploded and showered the user’s face with acid. Anyone who entertained thoughts of torturing the unlock code out of him could never be sure he’d given them the correct one until it was too late. Ian was also required to properly unlock the phone every ten days, or an automatic upload function would kick in and send the files to his valet, Allen, who would deal with the situation accordingly.

His regular clients didn’t even seem surprised: it was as if they expected him to take such measures.  Some were impressed. “I wish half my people were as good as you,” one Scotland Yard superintendent had said ruefully as Ian put him into suspension bondage.

“You’ll get the phone back, of course,” Moriarty says. “All I want you to do is upload copies of the naughty stuff to an FTP address I give you. Without that clever bit of insurance, you wouldn’t last six months.”

Ian doesn’t ask what the other man plans to do with the data. He only nods and hopes he can somehow break the deal later. What choice does he have? But he says bitterly, “What difference does it make to you how long I last?”

“It makes a big difference,” Moriarty smiles. “Because the second favour I want is _you_.”

 

 


End file.
